The gladiator entered the arena to the tumultuous applause of the three
thousand spectators. He raised his arms and turned to face each direction in
turn, finishing with a bow to the Empress.

He was tall, muscular, his body bronzed by the hot sun and toned by the
months of training. He carried two weapons, yet neither seemed fit for such
a figure. Wrapped round his left arm was a net of strong cord, large enough
when unfurled to encompass an opponent completely with a rope to draw the
mesh tight around any unfortunate captive. In his right arm was a
long-handled whip, its single vicious tail snaking across the ground as he
moved and ready to inflict serious pain to anyone caught by its crack when
he wielded it.

Instead of the full gladiatorís tunic with armoured breastplate, he wore
only the shortened lower tunic which hung like a heavy, short kilt from his
waist belt. His feet were bare. Around his head he wore a cloth band,
fashioned to resemble a victorís laurel wreath.

The crowd loved him, many of them on their feet clapping and cheering as
he flexed his muscles in front of them, showing off his strength and his
perfect shape that every man envied and every woman desired.

As the applause died away there was a roll of drums and into the arena
came his opponents, ten of them. Each was unarmed, wearing just a thin, full
tunic belted at the waist and reaching only a few inches down below their
hips. Apart from that they were completely naked and unadorned.

In contrast to the gladiator they looked weak, white, frail. Their bare
feet trod lightly on the sandy arena floor, shifting nervously and glancing
at the murmuring crowd. A thin ripple of applause went round the arena, but
there was no doubt that the eyes of the crowd remained on the gladiator
rather than on these ten newcomers, these ten young women.

The Empress raised her small flag, holding it aloft until she was certain
that both the contestants and the audience had seen it. A hush fell over the
stadium and birds rose from the back of the stands, frightened from their
roosts by the unacustom silence.

The Empress dropped her flag, and the game commenced.

First, the women circled the gladiator, careful to keep out of reach of
his whip and far enough away to be out of any possible throw of the net. He
whirled the whip round his head, its long tail whistling in the air as it
hurtled in a full circle around him. Contact with human skin would cut and
bruise, a long, thin, red line that spread as the blood flowed through the
open wound. The women knew, and kept their distance.

The odds were not in his favour. Armed though he was, outnumbered ten to
one his chances of overcoming his opponents were not good, and he knew it.
His only tactic was to take his chance, any chance they inadvertently gave
him, to eliminate or disable them one by one until he could win over those
remaining by his sheer superior strength. If there was one, just one, a
little further from her companions than the others, then he would make his
move.

They continued to circle, none wanting to make the first move. The sun
glared down on them as it did on him. The crowd grew restless. The Empress
sat back in her seat, disappointed, and still they circled.

He saw a chance. One woman, slightly smaller than the others, was a
little close to him than the rest, straying from the circle to almost within
range of his whip. He lunged, taking three steps towards her and bringing
the whip at the extent of its circle behind him in a straight line at her
with a crack that was audible in the furthest seats at the back of the
stadium.

She shrieked, not in fear but in pain as the lash cut into her skin right
through her thin tunic. She stumbled, losing her footing for a moment, and
at once his net was unfurled and flying through the air towards her. The
mesh hit her flat and open, the edges continuing their flight and wrapping
round her. He tugged the cords he still held in his left fist, drawing the
net tightly around her and pulling so that she lost balance completely and
fell towards him. A practised swerve to one side and several steps
backwards, and she was bundled completely within the tightening net and
being dragged across the ground towards him.

The others were too slow. It happened so quickly they did not react in
time to take advantage of it. In those few second his concentration was
entirely focused on netting his victim, the others could easily have rushed
in and taken him. They missed the opportunity.

She was at his feet now, a pathetic bundle in his net, her tunic slashed
and ripped and barely covering any of her. He should have despatched her
quickly and cleanly, freed the net and looked for the next opportunity, but
he too missed his chance. Those few seconds when the shock of losing one of
their team made any attack on him unlikely was gone, as he looked down at
the naked flesh of the beautiful young women in his net. Those few seconds
cost him that advantage, and without the whirling whip the others had
already started to close in on him. Frantically he knotted the netís cords
instead, knowing in his heart that reducing the odds to nine-to-one was not
enough, and now he had lost his most important weapon.

The whip on its own was not enough. From all sides they rushed in on him,
ignoring the cry of one woman when the whip caught her, wrapped round her
and sent her headlong and bleeding onto her face on the arena floor.

Their hands were on him, grasping him and throwing him onto his back. He
fought, hitting and kicking with all his strength, hearing bone crack when
he made contact. Two, three of them fell backwards screaming and unable to
continue, but finally they had him. Four of them struggled to hold his
wrists and ankles, one sat astride his stomach and the other sat astride his
head, grinding herself onto his face in an effort to subdue him. The fight
went out of him, and he lay still. She sat back on his chest.

All six young women looked up to where the spectator were, without
exception, on their feet cheering. The cheers died away, and the rest of the
audience too all looked in the same direction, at one seat right in the
centre of the stands.

The Empress stood up and raised one arm, fist clenched. What should she
do?

Her thumb was outstretched from her fist, parallel with the ground and
neither pointing up nor down. She looked at the crowd where the majority
were imitating her action, but some with their thumb up and some with it
down.

Her choice. She could let him live and take him. She could have him as
her personal slave for her most personal satisfaction, that was her right.
She could use that muscular bronzed body for her pleasure, and certainly she
knew and loved that pleasure well, very well.

Yet, there seemed little point. On this hot day the thought of forcing
her perspiring body onto him as he lay bound and helpless had little appeal
to her. In any case, the last slave she had let live had lasted only two
days. There was little likelihood he would last any longer.

Slowly, she turned her thumb downwards.

The young women gripped him tightly, knowing he would struggle again. The
woman on his chest raised herself and moved forward. Slowly and deliberately
she descended on him, gripping his head between her thighs to keep him still
and covering his nose and mouth underneath her. She sank her weight onto him
to seal him in completely.